When the Walls Start Caving In
by Chasingpaper14
Summary: A story about a con, and a very bad man. There will be tears and torment, and dreams of a bird on a wide, blue ocean. Kidnapping fic, set after Diamond Exchange.


**Takes place after Diamond Exchange, contains season 5 spoilers.**

**A warning, this is a very dark story. I never intended to go this deep but I started it, and was carried wherever the story took me. This story includes torture (Not explicitly descriptive) and vague references to rape that happens off screen, but as a whole the fic could possibly be quite triggery. Written as gen, but I suppose it could be slash if you squint.**

**Title inspired by the song 'The Resistance' by Muse, a difficult choice from one of many songs that inspired this work. The poem featured throughout is The Rime of the Ancient Mariner by Samuel Taylor Coleridge, which is in the public domain.**

* * *

_Friday_

_Despair_.

The 'complete loss or absence of hope.'

It seemed a fitting word to describe the miserable wreck that had all too quickly become the root of Neal's life. It was true, there was no more hope for him, knowing everything he had ever done for the FBI was worthless and had given him nothing in return. He'd learned the people he thought were his friends had only ever considered him to be an asset to the law and nothing more. It was somehow worse than being called a criminal; at least that still made him sound human even if it made him wince every time he heard it. An asset sounded like an object. He wasn't an asset. The word implied possession and he belonged to nobody, not the Bureau, not Peter.

Neal sighed and drew an unusually unsteady hand through his hair, not caring whether it tousled his carefully styled locks.

They had blamed it on his unplanned takeoff to Cape Verde, Peter had said to him. As though everything he had ever done before that and everything after no longer mattered. All those cases he had solved, all the criminals put away - which had only given Neal fewer contacts in times of need and a list of enemies that could be rolled down the full flight of June's stairs. All for nothing.

His whole contract with the FBI had been rigged, with no fair outcome for him no matter how he played the game. He had played himself into a corner and when you close in on a conman they bolt. But he didn't want to run; he had made it clear he was done with running and wanted to go straight. He was done with a life of crime, he needed to see the world from a different angle, where people were people - not marks with money - and he could finally appreciate the true beauty of art without instinctively planning a heist and considering possible fences.

Peter's last words had taken root in his head and were repeating over and over, creating vicious noise even in the tranquillity of the uninhabited park, warmed over by sunset orange.

_Don't do anything crazy Neal_.

Not even an apology, or a hint of sympathy for being screwed over by people he had spent the last five years trying to go out of his way to please. He had thought Peter cared – Hell, he was stupid to think for even minute that he had actually been anything more than a talent to be used to the FBI's advantage.

He leaned over the railing, staring vacantly out across open water, its surface shimmering with the soft hues of the evening glow. The skyscrapers in the distance formed a picturesque horizon of beautiful golden buildings bathed in the same natural light, framed against a lilac sky. The whole idyllic scene showed unity between nature and man, and could be worthy of being the inspiration for Monet himself. But now all Neal saw was the cruel, unjust world that would remain his prison until his sentence was served out.

He straightened up, brushing down the front of his Devore jacket. Despite it being the height of the summer, New York was still prone to showers every now and then, and he didn't want to get caught out in one. What he really needed was a seat out on June's terrace and a glass of wine. Make that a bottle. Maybe Two.

He could drink away his sorrows tonight, and then Peter would most likely be headed for Washington in the morning. Then the 'asset' would simply be passed around the Bureau until someone decided to stick with him.

But who would that be? Peter had already expressed enough warning to Clinton about the responsibility of taking Neal on to put him off the job, and he doubted Diana would even consider it for a second. Especially now she had Theo; Neal doubted she needed the extra stress. Whoever it would be, Neal could now see with hindsight that the only way to approach the change was to rebuild the fortress of walls in his facade he had once broken down for Peter, and keep things entirely professional. Not friends but colleagues. Co-workers even.

He'd learned it was too risky to trust the FBI, and only now did he realise Mozzie had been right all along – a conman simply couldn't befriend a suit, and boundaries needed to be re-established.

Something moved out of the corner of his eye, bringing him back to reality and _now, _away from clouded chaos of his mind. A man sat on one of the park benches adjusted his newspaper, and after catching a glimpse of his face, Neal found with sudden realisation that it was the man who had been tailing him all day, maybe even long before for all he knew.

He strode over, making his distrust of the man visibly clear like flicking a switch in his masquerade, his mask of deception that was a conman's best and possibly only true, reliable friend. He demanded an explanation from the man, only to be met with chilling, twisted words which would soon become a haunting mantra that would stalk his nightmares for the rest of his life.

_"I'm about to become the last person on earth who knows where you are."_

_Saturday_

When Neal awoke – groggy and disorientated – It was to find himself shrouded in darkness, the only light filtering under what must have been a door in the corner of the room but offering little to assist him. His wrists were on fire, and he was certain the room was swaying in front of him.

At first he put it down to the whatever tranquiliser they had pumped him full of once they had dragged him into the van, until he realised that his legs weren't actually touching the ground, and found he was strung up by his wrists on a rusty chain hanging from a large hook in the ceiling a foot or so off the ground. He noted his blazer and tie were missing, as were his shoes.

Panic set in before he could prepare himself, and he struggled furiously, which only increased the swinging until there was a build-up of nausea in the pit of his stomach and made the chain dig into his wrists until he was sure they were raw and tender.

He waited until the swinging stilled, making sure to even out his breathing so enough air was getting into his lungs. A panic attack would do him no good and would certainly not help him with whatever, whoever was going to be coming through that door.

Neal was certain it was hours before the door finally swung open, as he was certain the drug had now completely worn off, and he could no longer tell whether his arms were throbbing or numb, if that was possible. He struggled again out of instinct as a shadowed man entered the room, flicking a switch just outside the door that lit up the small space –thankfully not brightly – by a single low watt bulb hanging on a wire from the ceiling.

The make-every-situation-positive part of him found it ironic and slightly amusing how he looked exactly like that light bulb in his current predicament, whereas the rest of him was terrified to see the man from the park, looking just as casual and smug faced as before as he strode in. His change of clothes told Neal it was now Saturday – there were no windows so he had no record of time passing. But it was a good guess as far as guesses go.

"Sleep well Caffrey? I wish I could have offered you better accommodation but I needed to know you'd still be here in the morning."

So Saturday it was then, Neal decided. The man's voice made him wince; it was too casual and self assured to fit in with the seriousness of the situation, and from his high confidence Neal was sure he'd done a good job of covering his tracks.

It was then Neal realised that there wouldn't be any tracks. Less than an hour before he had been abducted he'd learned his sentence wasn't being terminated like he'd been led to believe, and had been warned by Peter not to do anything stupid. He'd even asked Mozz if he could bypass his anklet again like they had once tried.

To the FBI it would simply look like he'd taken off again, just like Cape Verde. Peter would think he ran.

There would be nobody looking for him.

At least not in the right places.

Not where it mattered.

"What do you want with me?" Neal asked finally, wary of how close the man was but unable to do much about it.

"It's quite simple really. I want something you have." His kidnapper raised his brow with a wide, unnerving smile.

"And what would that be?"

Neal thought back over everything he'd stolen, the enemies he'd made in the meantime and the possible culprits for his kidnapping, because he was certain he'd never seen this mystery man before. His father was still at large somewhere, and definitely had the motive. He wasn't in Rebecca's good books but she was in prison. He wouldn't put it past her to organise something like this though, but he didn't think she'd want him hurt - he was certain she meant it when she had told him that she still loved him.

"I want the diamond Neal."

Neal's head snapped up and he fixed a sharp glare upon the man. "I don't have it," he replied instantly, truthfully.

His kidnapper smiled to himself, turning away to send a text on his phone.

"I thought you might say that," he replied, and at that moment the door opened again and two goons entered, carrying a large bucket and something large that he couldn't make from his angle. "So that, my friend, is why you're hanging from the ceiling."

He began to walk away, muttering something to the men who were setting something up beside him, just out of his view.

"Wait! I told you, I don't have it, the FBI took it. I never stole it!" Neal wrestled against the restraints, sending a pleading look towards his kidnapper amongst his futile begging. Despite people sometimes believing otherwise, he was still only human and the thought of what could happen to him scared the shit out of him. Even with his skills of deception he couldn't keep the terror from his eyes.

"You're a conman Neal. I know you have it. All I need is a location and they'll stop. Toodles." He gave a small finger wave and a wink before leaving through the open door before Neal could say otherwise.

"Please, listen to me. He's lying, I don't have it!" Neal turned his head to the thug at his side, now able to see the contraption that was set up at his feet. The steel bucket was full of water, and beside it was something resembling a very large car battery crossed with a circuit box, several jumper cables attached to it. The other ends of the cables were clipped to wet sponges that were left in the bucket.

His pleas went unanswered and another bucket was brought in by the second thug. Before Neal could react the contents were thrown over him, cold water soaking through his shirt and leaving him coughing and spluttering for breath.

"Diamond." Thug one ordered, voice heavily accented.

"I don't have it, I swear!" Neal made a muffled noise of surprise as his shirt was torn open, the thug reaching for a jumper cable in each hand. Thug two steadied him before stepping aside.

The shock when the cables touched his chest was agonising and Neal screwed his eyes shut, letting out a loud gasp of breath he had been holding once it was over. It only seemed to last a couple of seconds but it left him aching, trembling and wheezing as he fought to take air through his constructed throat.

"Diamond." he repeated, though Neal didn't hear him through the ringing of his ears and the blinding pain.

The second shock caught him off guard and he cried out, body convulsing as electricity seized him and clouded his head with white hot suffering. It lasted longer than the first, and he shook for a while afterwards, chin pressed against his chest as his head hung down because of the lack of energy to keep it up.

This routine carried on for what seemed to Neal like an eternity. It carried on until his whole front was marked with burns, and his pain was no longer distinguishable. He blacked out by the fourth shock, and lost count soon after that. After so many shocks they would leave him for a while, and then come back, which must have gone on for hours. And he could do nothing to stop it because he didn't have the diamond. Just like his deal with the FBI, he was screwed no matter what he did.

_Sunday_

The next time Neal awoke, he was no longer upright but was laid on an old, thin and stained mattress in the same room. He was no longer restrained, and found that with just the slightest movement his chest burned like he'd been hit by a truck. He guessed what he had been through could qualify as the equivalent of.

He let out a small groan, shuffling gingerly to lay on his back, a hand travelling to his head to dig into his hair, trying to rid himself of the throbbing headache that he'd been left with. He examined his wrists – they were bruised and bleeding slightly, but fortunately all bones were still intact. Then Neal realised that he could actually see his wrists, which meant the light was on and -

"You're a tough cookie to crack, you know that?"

Neal startled and shot up, instantly doubling over with pain. He looked towards the voice, a hand still clutching his chest, to find his kidnapper sat in a collapsible metal chair in the corner of the small room. He was slumped far too casually, as though he wasn't responsible for the kidnap and torture of an FBI consultant. It made Neal cringe.

He still hadn't taken his eyes off the book he was reading. _To Kill a Mockingbird_ – Neal noticed quite ironically.

"You know..." his kidnapper continued. "I guess you could say that you and Mockingbirds have a lot in common. They pretend to be things they're not, just like you do. Mockingbirds are like the conmen of the animal kingdom, isn't that interesting?"

"You know the book isn't actually about birds right?" Neal offered weakly in return, his voice more shaky than usual, which was hardly surprising. Neal wondered how long the man had been sat there, and even more importantly – how long he had been unconscious for.

The man closed his book and stood up. "I'm surprised you endured all that when I gave you a way out. Though I have to admit, I wasn't sure if you were 'gonna wake up. You slept through the whole day."

"I told you, I don't have the diamond," Neal argued. He tried to hide a wince as he changed position on the uncomfortable mattress, but ended up breathing in sharply anyway.

"I'm still not convinced you or your paranoid little bald friend haven't stole it already. I mean you were planning on skipping your anklet weren't you? A diamond of such value would certainly give a conman more then what he needs to buy an island somewhere and live off the grid."

"I haven't stolen the diamond and neither has Mozzie. Leave him out of this," Neal warned.

"Well even if that's true, I've still got to come up with the equivalent even if it's hard cash; a few little birdies in the underworld tell me your one of the best forgers in the business. I'm sure we can work something out."

"I'm not working for you," he replied stiffly.

"Well that's the thing, you're not getting a choice in the matter. You'll work for me because I'm the only person that can give you what you want." He approached Neal, who shuffled to the other end of the mattress, back pressed tight against the wall.

"And what would that be?"

The man took something out of his pocket that glinted in the dull light. A syringe. He popped the cap on it, while Neal watched fearfully.

"What's that?" he asked cautiously, instinctively drawing his arms in close to him.

"Don't worry about it, just something to make sure you're going to be cooperative. It will take a few tries to reach the effect I'm looking for though," the man replied, suddenly grabbing his arm and pinning it above his head with brute strength. Neal was too weak from before to make much of a difference despite struggling, and winced as the contents were injected into a vein.

From the sudden rush of all too much feeling that hit his head all at once, Neal suspected it was illegal drugs. Not tranquilisers – they didn't make him feel tired – but something of the same trade.

The man infront of him quickly dissolved out of focus once he stood up, and Neal barely registered him leaving the room.

When he came down from the high, he cried himself to sleep, horrified by the whole fucked up situation.

_Possibly Still Sunday_

Neal stirred many hours later, still slumped against the wall from where he had been before. He still felt out of it, and involuntary shaking hinted at the fact it had been a large enough dose to give him withdrawal symptoms. Neal had suspected heroin at first, but the effects were more sudden, with the withdrawal worse and lasting longer so he presumed it was a cocktail of drugs. Neal knew enough to know it wasn't just heroin, but that was a dark and shady part of his early life that he'd buried and forgotten about long ago. But he'd had his reasons at the time.

He got to his feet after a couple of attempts, breathing through the sudden rush of vertigo. The light was off once again, but he could faintly make out the edges of the room. It was a little bigger than his prison cell, yet felt more like a prison than his real stay on the inside ever was. He paced for a while, counting his steps and reciting parts of The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, simply to pass the time and keep himself active, mind sharp.

_At length did cross an Albatross,_

_Thorough the fog it came;_

_As if it had been a Christian soul,_

_We hailed it in God's name._

_It ate the food it ne'er had eat,_

_And round and round it flew._

_The ice did split with a thunder-fit;_

_The helmsman steered us through!_

_And a good south wind sprung up behind;_

_The Albatross did follow,_

_And every day, for food or play,_

_Came to the mariner's hollo!_

He wasn't sure how much time had passed while he had slept, but he realised it could now have been up to two days since he last ate or drank. From what he had gathered, his kidnapper wanted him alive, but Neal wasn't entirely convinced. And if he was every going to get out of here without the FBI's help, then he needed to replenish himself before he became incapacitated with dehydration.

He headed over to the door, examining it in detail now that he had the chance to. The knowledge he gained from it was useless; the door was locked from the outside and literally had no lock, handle or anything on his side. If there were no locks he couldn't pick them. He sighed and sat back down on his mattress, knowing he needed to conserve what energy he had left.

Now that Neal was awake when his kidnapper came back, he had deduced he was being kept in a basement of some sorts, from the musty, cold conditions of the room and the fact that his kidnapper had come down a set of stairs to reach him. He wasn't sure what he could do with that information but it was something, so he stored it away for later.

His kidnapper strolled into the room, the same cocky grin plastered across his face that made Neal uneasy. However he was pleased to see the man had brought a plate of food and a water bottle with him.

"You need to keep your strength up if we're going to be working together," he said, placing both down in front of Neal.

Neal sighed, and didn't bother arguing the fact that it wasn't his fault nobody had brought him anything before now. He waited a while, but when it became clear his kidnapper was staying to watch him eat, he began to pick at the food. It wasn't that bad, it looked to be some kind of pie, but from the taste Neal was sure it was a ready meal. But even though it differed from his usual lavish diet, he didn't complain. And his kidnapper had been kind enough to give him cutlery.

"What do you mean working together? I've made it pretty clear I don't have the diamond so am I supposed to do?" Neal asked a while later, taking a long drink of the cool water to cure his dry, scratchy throat. It came as a blessing after what he had been through, and Neal closed his eyes in satisfaction.

Even if his kidnapper did have a job in mind, Neal was pretty sure it would be more of a one sided effort on his part rather than actually working together.

"Like I said earlier, if you're not 'gonna cough up the diamond then I've got to find another way to generate some income. And since I've gone through the effort to take you I may as well use your talents." He took something else from his pocket and Neal was relieved to see it was only a notepad.

The man tossed it over to him, along with a pen. "I've heard your good with your paints, so I'm 'gonna need you to paint me a picture," his kidnapper grinned, lighting up a cigar and taking a long drag. The plumes of smoke filled the already choking room and stung Neal's eyes."This picture, to be exact," he added, showing Neal a picture on his phone of a painted sunset.

"San Giorgio Maggiore at Dusk. One of Monet's later paintings..." Neal mused, admiring the beauty of the painting even though it displayed poorly on the small phone screen. The painting reminded him of the sunset he had seen on Friday in the park that he'd been too ignorant to truly appreciate, bringing back pained memories of people he may never see again. He could see it now, road blocks and wanted posters on every street corner, along with the FBI and possible Interpol searching all over the world for him.

Peter would be disappointed, Neal thought.

"Why me?" Neal hadn't meant to say that aloud.

"Nothing personal, I guess it's just a wrong place wrong time 'sorta thing. Just unlucky you got caught up in the whole mess with the diamond," he stated plainly, before indicating to the notepad. "Now, I need you write down everything you'll need to replicate that painting for me."

Neal reluctantly complied, making sure to pick the most expensive brands of paints and canvas simply to get one over on his kidnapper. The man smiled unnervingly, scanning briefly over the list before pocketing it. Then, like the night before, took out another syringe and crouched down in front of Neal.

"You know my name, shouldn't I know yours?" Neal asked, but it came out as more of a quiet whimper, almost a whisper. His eyes were fixed on the needle as the man injected him again and he was greeted with the same rush that surrounded him in a blissful fog, detaching him from cruelty of reality.

"Call me Nathan," the man replied, giving Neal a last undecipherable look before picking up the plates and leaving him in the darkness once again.

_Monday_

That last dose had been much stronger. The withdrawal was worse. Neal had spent most of the night feeling agitated, attacked by violent tremors and feeling suffocated by the tiny room more than he had before. He'd walked back and forth most of the night, reciting, pacing and waiting, for what he wasn't sure.

When he did finally slip into sleep, he dreamt of the ocean, vast and blue and stretching out into the horizon, and a bird that sailed endlessly on the summer breeze.

Neal woke feeling washed out. He noticed there was another bottle of water beside his mattress, which he drank from thankfully.

Nathan came back late afternoon with everything Neal had wrote on the list. A canvas was propped on an easel in one corner, and Neal was even given a small plastic chair to sit on. He was given multiple high-res pictures of the painting, which he blu-tacked to the walls around him, and for once the light was left on when Nathan left.

Neal started the painting immediately, not to please his kidnapper but simply because it was the first productive thing he had done in days.

_The Following Tuesday_

Neal had spent the last week working on the painting. He would paint for hours upon hours until his eyes grew weary and his hands were rendered useless from pins and needles, thinking about Peter and El and what their new life would be like in Washington, what Mozzie was up to and if he was worrying about him.

He even thought about Rebecca – how he had fallen head over heels for her, his first real, true love since Kate. He knew his relationship with Sarah was more of a fling, to satisfy both parties wants for company in the times that they were alone. He loved her, but it wasn't true love. But Rebecca had stolen his heart before he'd even realized it was gone, and then she crushed it under her heel, along with any hopes Neal had at finding _the one_, and living a life with a white picket fence.

Every Day had followed the same strict routine. He would work on the painting all day, then be given a meal in the early evening, along with his daily dose of medicine. He would suffer long into night with withdrawal, breaking out into sweat and shaking, fighting the sensation of his flesh crawling by digging his nails into his arms until they drew blood.

Then when it finally wore off, he would repeat a few verses of the rime, simply because it gave him a blessed constant in the unstructured confusion that had become his life, and was the one thing he had control over. After that he would sleep for a few hours, and then wake to restart the same procedure. Over, and over again.

Nathan came to collect the painting Tuesday evening, showing Neal a picture of the next painting he would forge, along with a notepad for Neal to request more supplies. Few words were exchanged between the two men, but Neal made his loathing for the man clear whenever they were together.

Tuesday's dose was possibly the highest one yet.

_Wednesday_

Wednesday was different. On Wednesday he was given his dose late morning.

He'd been given the supplies, but didn't even think about painting until much later in the day, until his hands had stopped shaking and he didn't breathe so unevenly. The withdrawal still hadn't completely worn off by the evening, and he was too afraid to start the painting in case he messed up. He couldn't think straight, and kept messing up the poem.

His meal was brought in the evening along with another syringe. But this time, he wasn't forced to take it. The syringe was left with his meal, and was left even after his plate was taken away.

"Why haven't you given me it?" Neal stopped his kidnapper at the door, making clear it wasn't a request but a simple search for an answer.

"Because you're going to take it yourself Neal."

_Thursday_

The syringe was still there when Neal woke up. He was given another dose as soon as he was awake like the day before, and Neal went through the same agonizing withdrawal from it for most of the day.

Except this time, Neal had been given a way to stop it.

He'd fought it all afternoon, paced, yelled and cried until he could take it no longer. The syringe was there, and it was the only way he could stop the pain and hide in the sweet mist of detachment the drug brought with it.

The temptation was just too great.

It had taken all day, but in the end Neal had taken the dose himself. He cried for the rest of the night.

_Many, Many Days Later_

Neal wasn't sure what day it was. He'd lost count long ago and had no way of knowing what day or what time it was. Ever since that night he had taken the drug by himself, he was given a dose in the morning, then left with a syringe to take himself once his withdrawal became too unbearable. He would battle the withdrawal all day until he had to choice but to take the drug, telling himself it would be the last one.

And that broke him inside, having to willingly destroy himself hit by hit, which Neal knew was exactly what his kidnapper wanted. To take the mask away from the conman, and expose what was really inside, nothing but another drug addict who would do anything for a another hit.

Nathan had reminded him often that the painting had not yet been started, and Neal would promise he would start soon. But every time he picked up a paintbrush his hands would shake, and the first time he tried he made a mess of it on the first colour.

Nathan wasn't happy about that, and had sent his goons in to let Neal know. Neal slept that night nursing a black eye and two broken ribs.

_Even later than before_

Today, there was no evening hit. Just the one in the morning. The room had been filled with Neal's screams, yells, and begs for just one more tiny dose. He'd thrashed and smashed his fist on the door until it was bruised and bleeding, screaming for someone, anyone to take the pain away. It scared Neal, realising how dependant he had become on this hellish drug. It made little difference now.

_Another day like all the rest_

For the first time during his abduction, Neal had actually looked forward to drugging himself up today, because it allowed him to slip down into a dark, dark void where he no longer had to feel any pain, or worry about anything at all.

What broke him the most is that he didn't even hesitate to grab the syringe and depress the plunger.

_What day was it now?_

_God save thee, ancient Mariner!_

_From the fiends, that plague thee thus!—_

_Why look'st thou so?'—With my cross-bow_

_I shot the albatross._

_How long had he been here?_

Today, Nathan realised Neal couldn't paint for him anymore. So he had found other uses for Neal, which didn't give him any money but were much better to him than any old painting.

Neal didn't paint again after that.

_He'd pretend it was Sunday, he liked Sundays_

_Neal weakly cracked open his eyelids to the sound of yelling outside. At first he thought it was Nathan, but that voice seemed so familiar, he just couldn't summon enough energy to try and work out who it was. He heard gunshots echoing outside, but Neal didn't like guns._

_There was silence after that, before it was disturbed by footsteps on the floor above, which had to be more than one person. One person couldn't make that much noise._

_His prison door opened slowly, almost hesitantly, before a figure materialised in the room. He had broad shoulders and salt and pepper flecked hair. The man clutched a gun at his side but it wasn't aimed at Neal. He wore a cheap suit and tie, that Neal was certain he'd seen on more than one occasion. He was sure he'd even made fun of that suit before._

_But the figure didn't come any closer._

_He just stood there, staring at Neal with a hollow, blank expression._

Then the figure disappeared, and Neal woke up.

_A few months later_

_The White Collar Offices_ –

"It's been over three months Peter. Three months. We need to start considering other possibilities. The case has been cold for too long, there's a chance Neal may not be alive..."

Peter knew by 'we' Diana meant just him. He was the only one spending every night at the office, going over every piece of evidence they had on Neal's abduction, which was next to nothing.

At first Peter had believed Neal had run. He was disappointed at first, but not angry. He knew Neal had more than enough reasons; all Peter wished was that Neal wasn't angry at him, because he'd done everything in his power to give that kid the straight life he deserved. Deserves. It was the rest of the FBI that had fucked him over.

Then a week later, the shattered remains of Neal's tracker had turned up. In what seemed like a miracle, they had managed to find one distinguishable fingerprint they could use. After that they'd switched Neal's case to a kidnapping and spent the next few months chasing a guy with a rapsheet that included murder and sexual assault among hundreds of violent crimes. Most had given up hope of finding Neal alive.

He was the only one that still believed there was a chance of getting Neal back.

Diana's sigh went unnoticed amidst Peter's obvious distraction. She'd noticed her boss now spent most of his time being distracted, detached in his own little world in his head where she was certain he was thinking about Neal, imagination conjuring up horrific scenarios in which Neal was left broken in every one. "I'm not saying we give up completely, I'm just saying the higher ups aren't going to provide bureau resources for a case that hasn't turned over any new evidence since Neal's tracker. Taking on a new case might take your mind off of...things..."

Though she didn't let on, Neal's abduction was affecting her just as much as Peter. She had been the last to warm to the conman when he had charmed his way into White Collar with a smile and a tip of an expensive fedora, and sometimes he drove her insane with his ability to always get on her nerves and inability to follow simple instructions. But without Neal bouncing around the office like a puppy on a sugar rush, coming into work held a certain drag that hadn't been there before.

With Neal every day was different, and she had to be prepared for the unexpected. Things had certainly changed now.

_?_

Needle marks littered Neal's arms like gravestones in a graveyard, some old and some very recent. Several were infected. But in every tiny scar another part of him had died.

_Was Peter angry with him?_

_And the good south wind still blew behind,_

_But no sweet bird did follow,_

_Nor any day for food or play_

_Came to the mariner's hollo!_

_And I had done a hellish thing,_

_And it would work 'em woe:_

_For all averred, I had killed the bird_

_That made the breeze to blow._

_Ah wretch! said they, the bird to slay,_

_That made the breeze to blow!_

_One miserable Thursday in November, just over four months since Neal was taken_

It was two in the morning when Peter had received the call telling him they'd tracked their guy's movements to a safe house. What truly tore at Peter's heart was that it was only a couple of miles away from the offices, and Neal could have been there the entire time. Peter had got dressed immediately, kissed his wife and told them to do nothing until he arrived.

_Ah! well a-day! what evil looks_

_Had I from old and young!_

_Instead of the cross, the Albatross_

_About my neck was hung._

_That Same Thursday, That Didn't Seem So Miserable Anymore_

"Neal?"

Peter crouched beside his friend's shaking, battered form, face slowly coming into focus inches from Neal's own. Peter looked worried, terrified even, and that scared Neal because Peter was never afraid. Neal worried that maybe it wasn't the real Peter, but just another hallucination, a figment of his drug infused mind.

Neal felt a gentle hand on his shoulder and he closed his eyes, knowing it wouldn't hurt him like all the other times Neal had been subjected to cruel, ruthless violence. It came as a blessing, and he wanted the hand to remain there forever, because as long as it was there Neal knew he would be safe from harm.

"It's okay Neal, you're safe now. He can't hurt you anymore."

And Neal believed him, because Peter was here now, real and beside him even though his face was creased with worry lines in places Neal hadn't seen before, and his voice sounded so unlike Peter.

Peter heard Neal mumble something about an albatross.

Neal didn't open his eyes again – he didn't need to because for once he could sleep peacefully knowing Peter would be there when he woke up, and whatever the future would bring, he would not be facing it alone.

* * *

_I pass, like night, from land to land;_

_I have strange power of speech;_

_That moment that his face I see,_

_I know the man that must hear me:_

_To him my tale I teach._

_-End_


End file.
